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inside, letting the door close behind him.
The room had an open area running all the way down the center, containing
several tables with chairs pulled up on both sides. He moved forward and
deposited the two bags he was carrying on the table nearest the door. To left
and right, the space along the sides of the room was partitioned into a series
of five or six bays, each of which contained two double-tier bunks, one
alongside the partition on each side, separated by a narrow aisle containing
kit lockers. There were pictures adorning the walls in places, some mugs and
eating utensils on shelves, books, a long, carved wooden pipe resting in a
bowl, and an unfinished game of chess on one of the tables. The place looked
reasonably clean, but had a distinct odor of too many bodies living in too
confined a space. Whoever the bodies were, they were absent for the moment.
There was an open door at the far end of the room, and as McCain's hearing
adapted to the quiet after the hubbub outside, he discerned sounds of
movement. A moment later a figure appeared framed in the far doorway, holding
a broom. McCain waited. The man shuffled out and approached around the farmost
table. He was of Oriental appearance, lithely built, and wearing a black
skullcap in addition to the regulation gray tunic. As he came closer, McCain
found that he had an abstruse face that managed to both reinforce and
contradict at the same time the impression of years conveyed by his physique.
It was furrowed and wizened about the eyes, yet surprisingly smooth everywhere
else. His chin sprouted a short beard that was turning gray, but his stare was
bright and alert like that of a curious child.
"You must be the American," he said. "My name is Nakajima-Lin
Kohmei-Tso-Liang." His voice and expression were neutral, carrying neither
undue warmth nor hostility. McCain was instantly confused. The construction
was typically Asiatic with the family name coming first, but the double name
itself was a composite of Japanese and Chinese; the first of the given names
following sounded Japanese, but the other two were Chinese. He watched McCain
curiously, and McCain had the feeling that he was able to read if the
contradiction meant anything to McCain or not. "Generally I am called Koh."
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"Lewis Earnshaw," McCain responded. "Most people call me Lew."
Koh came to where McCain was standing and indicated the lower tier of the bunk
by the first partition to the left. "Your place will be there," he said.
He nodded toward the corner bunk behind McCain's right. As McCain had noticed
with some of the other bunks, its upper cot was hinged upright out of the way.
It suggested that the place was not occupied to full capacity at present. "I
live across there. It seems, therefore, that for a while we are to be
neighbors." Koh spoke English well, with slow and careful articulation.
McCain picked up his bags from the table and moved across. "Well, I guess
that's fine with me. Does your name make you Japanese or Chinese?"
"A mixture of the two, which goes back many generations. Appropriate to this
century."
"I've spent some time in both countries. It sounds as if you were expecting
me."
"The billet foreman is usually notified when a new arrival is due."
"What exactly is a foreman?"
"You are not familiar with the system?"
"How could I be?"
"Aren't you transferring from another part of Zamork?"
"No, I only just arrived."
Koh nodded. "I see. Every billet has a foreman. It's a trusted category of
inmates who are responsible for discipline, take complaints to the right
quarters, and hand out work assignments. Ours is called Luchenko, a Russian."
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the far end of the room with his free
hand. "His place is back there. He'll talk to you when he gets back."
"So, what's he like?"
"Oh, some days good, some days not so good. Most times okay."
McCain looked down at his cot, which held just a bare mattress. "What do we do
about getting blankets and stuff?"
"You pick up a kit at OI -- dishes, eating implements, and so on."
"What's OI?"
"The Official Issue store, in the Core complex across Gorky Street."
"Gorky Street?"
"Outside the block mess area -- where you just came along. If you wish, I
will show you the way when I'm finished."
"Are you here all the time, Koh?"
"One half day each week is for cleaning. This week it's my turn. It provides a
welcome opportunity to think in peace and quiet. One seldom gets time to be
alone in Zamork."
"How long have you been here now?"
"A year, roughly."
McCain nodded absently and stepped back to survey the bunk above his, trying
to gauge something about the person who would be his closest neighbor.
There were several raunchily explicit pinups attached to the head end of the
partition, a rock magazine cover showing a pop group in action behind a
star-spangled logo in the shape of the letters "USA," and, folded on the
pillow below, an Ohio State University T-shirt. "What are you in here for?" he
inquired.
"Vy govorite po-Russki?" Koh asked suddenly from behind him -- Do you speak
Russian?
McCain turned and studied his face for a second, then nodded. "Da."
"Where are you from in America?" Koh went on, still in Russian. "Have you been
on Tereshkova long? What was your offense?"
McCain saw the point and nodded resignedly. "I don't know you," he agreed,
switching back to English.
"Nor I, you. As you obviously already understand, one learns not to ask such
questions of strangers."
"Would I have admitted to speaking Russian if I'd been planted here?"
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McCain asked.
"Unlikely," Koh conceded. "But then again you might, if you were being very
clever."
"Are they often very clever?"
"No. But when they are, that's when they're at their most dangerous."
McCain sighed. There was nothing he could say to alleviate all suspicions
instantly. It would take time and patience. He sat down on his bunk and turned
his attention to transferring the contents of his bags into his locker. "Who's
the guy upstairs?" he asked, changing the subject. "Looks like another
American."
Koh gave a short laugh. "No, not an American. An Americophile. His name is
Mungabo. He's Zigandan. The Russians have strange impressions of American
life, especially with regard to racial tensions, which their propagandists
exaggerate. They also have a strange sense of humor. Luchenko thought it would
be funny to put the American under the black man." He turned and began walking
back toward the far end of the room. "Toilets and washing facilities are
through there. I'll take you over to OI when I'm through."
"So, what did this Zigandan guy do for America that caused him to wind up
here... or is that something we don't ask about, too?" McCain called after
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